


like real people do;

by technophileTriquetra



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Blood, Character Death, Demon Strilondes, Gore, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Character Death, POV Second Person, Past Bro/Grandpa, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Slow Build, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-11 04:46:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5614417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technophileTriquetra/pseuds/technophileTriquetra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[indefinite hiatus]</p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <i>I will not ask you where you came from</i><br/></p>
</div><br/><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <i>I will not ask you, neither should you</i><br/></p>
</div><br/><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <i>Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips</i><br/></p>
</div><br/><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <i>We should just kiss like real people do</i><br/></p>
</div>In which 137-year-old demon Broderick Strider exacts revenge on a clan of demon hunters that had wronged him and his kin all those years ago. Within their ranks, however, he finds himself unable to detach his thoughts from one particular little brat with permanent bedhead who makes him feel surprisingly <i>human</i> again.
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings because more will apply as more chapters are added. I'll be adding warnings at the beginning of each chapter. More tags, as well as characters, will be added later. Updates should be about once a week/once every two weeks. All comments are, of course, appreciated.
> 
> Warnings that apply to Chapter One:
> 
> Character Death, mild gore/violence, mild sexual content.

The previous day, it had been raining. Black tar slick with a thin sheet, the pavement reflects the dim lights of the dirty street lamps that hover ten feet above. Around you the air is still thick. Still stinks of stormclouds and promises of more to come, if you’re willing to stick around, wait a few hours for the overcast skies to open up onto you. The breeze that courses through the air sends a shiver down your spine. It’s ironic. You’d think you’d be used to the cold after a few hundred years. A burnt-orange hoodie shields you from the brunt of it, and those unnatural honey-golden eyes move their gaze from scuffed shoes dragging along the pavement to the man a few feet in front of you.

It gets exhausting. This man in particular you’d been following for… how many days has it been, now? About three. Three, and you’re never able to catch him alone, or vulnerable enough to take your first shot. That is, until now. In the dead of night (or early morning, if you will) walking around after a brief downpour. His car was deserted a few blocks back, all thanks to your handiwork. A few wires cut, put back in the wrong place, some water in the gas tank and you were good to go. It’s not always about some sort of magical power bullshit that everyone seems to think you have.

You make the mistake of chuckling about this to yourself. This, in turn, alerts the man you’d been so carefully following, and he turns around to face you. Usually you’d be able to play it off. Trudge past him and give it up for a few days before you return for the kill. Today is just not your day. The universe has other plans for you, and you feel it shift ever so slightly against your favor. Thanks, Obama. When he turns, his sharp green gaze boring holes into your skull, you stop.

Up close, he looks far more familiar than you first anticipated. Memories flash in your vision. Almost like an old movie, all sepia toned just for effect. You can pinpoint the exact moment it clicks in your head why he looks familiar, and now you need to end him for a whole new page of reasons. It hurts. Looking at him hurts, watching as his careful, steady hand reaches for something in his pocket-- possibly the waistband of his khakis.

You choose to ignore the dull ache in your chest for now. It’ll only make your job that much harder. At your sides, fists clench to dig unkempt nails into your skin. He's still reaching, a bold move for someone who's beginning to look as nervous and unsure as he does. That little flicker of doubt that quickly flits across his features is the exact opening you need. The left corner of your lip pulls up into a snarl. A feral noise escapes your throat and you know he can see your elongated canine, now.

In a matter of seconds you're lunging for him at superhuman speed. Tonight might just be your night after all, because the streets are empty and no one hears the startled yelp the man gives before you have time to clamp your palm overtop of his mouth. You can feel his teeth dig into the leather. He wants to hurt you, wants wants to reach for that gun you know he had hidden under his shirt. You don't let him, no matter how hard he tries to thrash the weight of your muscular frame on top of his lean one continues to hold him down on the pavement.

Slowly you remove your hand from his mouth, poised to drop it right back down if he tries to call for help. This area was swimming with hunters. You might be able to survive a gunshot wound but that doesn't mean it won't hurt like hell. You wait for him to speak, an eyebrow quirked as if you're daring him, challenging him. He's frozen still for a few moments that make you consider the possibility you just scared him to death before he opens and closes his mouth like a dying fish.

“You going to eat me, then? Is this it?”

You can't help the bellow you give. What kind of ridiculous bullshit are they feeding these youthful hunters these days? He flinches at the sound that echoes in the night.

“Demons don’t  _ eat  _ people, kid,” you say. You suppose it's not entirely off base. Your teeth are a powerful weapon. If you need to use them to get the job done, you will. Doesn't mean you enjoy the tough texture or fatty taste of human flesh. He looks confused at your answer, because it appears to be a very sincerely believed misconception about your kind. You roll your eyes at him.

“Stupid. You come from a long line of hunters, pretty boy.” He flinches; you laugh. “It’s such a shame that their knowledge is slowly dwindling the more watered down their bloodline gets.”

“How on God’s green Earth do you know a damn thing about me or my family!” Again with the struggling. You don’t move an inch, just let him thrash around beneath you until it’s all well and out of his system. There is no whine of surrender that comes from his throat as you expect it to, only a very defeated huff of air and an unsure gaze that can never rest on you for more than a handful of seconds.

You lean in, only stopping once your mouth is level with his ear. Gooseflesh prickles under the hand you have on his arm to brace him against the concrete below. The shell of his ear is warm. Warm and alive and you can hear his blood rushing beneath the surface of tanned skin as his heart pumps in high gear, fueled by the rush of adrenaline a good fight gives him. Your tongue, thick and coated with a sticky sheen of saliva, flicks out to snake along the ridge of his ear, earning another howl of protest from him. Oh, poor, poor boy.

He has no idea who you are, and yet, you know everything about him. What a pity.

Had he known, however, just who you were, or the way his family speaks about you, he’d know better than to try and fight back. There’s a reason you’ve lived for over a hundred years despite being the Top Dog on Hunter’s Most Wanted. It’s because you’re  _ just that good _ .

Against his ear you begin to speak, hissing sharp words directly into him. As if that’d help get your point across. You know it won’t, you know this is in vain, but your parents never told you not to play with your food. You never learned better than this.

“You look just like him…” comes the rumbling purr. Your nails digging into his skin cause him to whimper. “The same dark hair, the same olive complexion, the same forest green eyes…”

“What the hell are you on about!?”

You don’t answer his question, simply continue.

“I loved him.”

The first time you’re admitting this out loud and, with that, admitting it to yourself after forty-four years of swallowing it down, is to someone you’re about to kill to exact revenge on what happened all those years ago. He’d taken what was yours and his life was not near enough to pay for his crimes.

“I will bathe in your blood just as I bathed in his and it will be the  _ sweetest  _ victory I have  _ ever _ tasted.”

It is then that it dawns on him, because the last thing that leaves his mouth is your name, a shrill whisper to combat your vicious growl.

“Broderick Strider.”

That’s all you could have asked for. That’s your cue. He knows who you are, he knows why his life must end and he knows who he’s dying because of and you hope, you pray to a God that abandoned you so many years ago that this will satisfy your bloodlust for his kin.

One final growl in his ear and the hand not holding him down grips fingers around his throat. Your thumb nail digs into the left side of his trachea, busting through skin and cutting off the scream that’s now left suspended in his throat. Crimson drips from the open wound. The iron scent reaches your nose and you all but retch. You don’t stop there. Oh, no, you’re not simply going to choke him to death. What his kind have done to you and yours warrants a death far more painful, far more bloody, just like you promised. Three other fingers lock onto the other side of his trachea, the sharp points of your nails breaking skin as well. And you keep going. And going. Down to the first knuckle your finger sinks into him. Golden eyes slide shut as you relish in the gurgling noise he’s making. The only noise he can make. There’s blood bubbling in the back of his throat; you can see this as you open your eyes again and  _ squeeze _ .

It’s so rewarding to watch him seize. You can feel his heartbeat quicken under your fingers as he tries to survive the way you grip onto his throat from the inside, raking your nails down it just for more blood to ooze around your fingers and up into his mouth. You wonder if he likes the taste. You wonder what his family will think when they have to identify his body, his throat ripped open and almost out of him altogether.

You wonder what he’s trying to say when his lips move those last few seconds, the pressure around his throat never letting up enough for him to get any sort of coherent words out. You squeeze and squeeze and,  _ pull _ , and you repeat this process until your hand is covered in blood. The rapid beat of his heart slows beneath your palm, and it’s over. There’s no more life in his eyes. His body is still. Warm. But dead.

Your own heartbeat slows down as you come off of that high that this whole event has given you. Strands of blood connect you to his corpse when you extract your fingers from his neck. Just for shits and giggles you draw on his forehead with his own blood. Nothing special. The Cross of Saint Peter (a symbol most ignorant people recognize as being, for some reason, a Satanic thing), 666. The whole shebang, making his death a mockery. That’s what it is, in your eyes. He deserved this death just as his grandfather before him deserved it as well.

Your previous assumptions had been wrong. Ending his life had not satisfied your need for revenge. It’d hardly felt like revenge at all. This won’t be over until they all pay. You make a note of this in your head as you walk away from his body, hands shoved down into your pockets and hood flipped up over your cap.

You don’t stop walking until you’re blocks away and hear the telltale scream of someone finding a dead body.

Music to your ears.

* * *

 

_ His hands are heavy on your hips. The bruises you know he’ll leave will heal by morning but he’ll still be around to give you more, a process you two repeat over and over again until you can’t anymore-- until he can’t anymore, as his stamina is absolutely no match to yours. It’s almost addictive. The way his dark skin contrasts with your own pale body, the curve of him filling every contour and dip of your own as he hovers above you. _

_ There’s warm breath on your neck, a lingering reminder of his presence and how he has control and you just  _ let him _. You let him own you and claim you and hold you down like this when you’re in your most vulnerable state. You trust him. Something you’ve never been able to do with another human, let alone another hunter. You trust him with your life (lack thereof, perhaps? You wonder if that counts, given your immortality). You would willingly reach into the cavity of your chest to tear out your heart and hand it off to him with his promises of taking care of it because you know he will. _

_ He’d never hurt you. _

_ Your head turns, skin flushed and sweaty and he’s looking down at you like you’re the only thing on this planet that matters anymore, forest-green eyes soft and adoring and-- _

_ Something tears through you, causing nails to rip the sheets and canines to dig into the fat of your lip, and you unwind, faster and faster until you’re shivering beneath him and his body is pressed atop yours again. _

_ You let him take you apart like this because you know he will always put you back together. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You look nice.”  
> “Thank you. You got taller.”  
> “Still not as tall as you.”  
> “Taller than Jake is. Was.”  
> “...Yeah.”  
> “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:
> 
> Brief minor violence, mentions of past character death, funerals. If you feel that there are others I should add, please let me know.
> 
> I'm posting this chapter early, given that this is such a new fic.
> 
> This chapter is written from John's POV

The moment you lose your footing, you know you’re fucked. Totally, and completely, fucked.

It wasn’t like this was your first hunt. Hell, it wasn’t even your second, or third. You’d been going out on hunts since you were, what, thirteen years old? Your father took you out to show you the ropes the day after your thirteenth birthday. As one can imagine, that’s left you with quite a few years of major bullshit. And it’s not even the first time you’ve been after these particular creatures. You know how they move. Jane’s even learned their patterns rather quickly. You noticed that about five minutes ago when she was locked in combat with the smaller female of the group.

They moved together as though performing a complicated dance that left you so mesmerized by their fancy footwork and they way they seemed to flow so smoothly that you had misstepped. You didn’t properly calculate the distance between a rather sizable rock and your foot, catching the toe of your shoe on the side. Your father is nowhere to be seen. Likely dealing with the two heads of this ragtag team of demons. Jane was still trying to get a good hit on Blondie, who seemed clever enough to evade her but disinterested just enough to not actually fight back. When you get a better look at her from all the way down here on the ground, you think she looks… bored.

Sadly, you’re unable to stand up and assist your sister with the apathetic demon she’s fighting back, because there’s a very dirty boot stepping down on your throat and you suddenly find it very hard to breathe. You follow the scuffed mark of the boot up to torn up black jeans. The jeans lead you to a tight wifebeater around a lightly muscled frame and then up and up and up to eyes the color of the harvest moon. You don’t know his name, but you’ve met him before. He is quick. He is dangerous. And he is sneering down at you.

For a few brief seconds the pressure against your windpipe increases. You can’t breathe. In that moment you are positive that he’s going to kill you. The look of determination, of anger on his face is clear. To your left you see Jane and Blondie just as the edges of your vision begin to seep into black.

This is where you die. Your hands scramble on the bed of earth beneath you. Dirt cakes underneath your nails. The pressure grows again. Is that pitiful gagging noise coming from you? You can't tell, but it's wet and it vibrates through you, fills your ears. When your life doesn't suddenly flash before your eyes like in the movies you find yourself only slightly disappointed. You also realize you're trying to distract yourself from the fact that you are likely going to die in the next few seconds. Your mind has checked out. It'd rather not stick around and suffer through the lack of oxygen.

And then, it’s gone.

While you lay on the ground and savor the sweet taste of air you missed so much in just a matter of seconds, you notice something. Jane and Blondie are nowhere to be seen. Your sledgehammer lay, discarded, two feet out of your reach. Worry sets in. You have no way to defend yourself in case he comes back, you have no idea the state of your sister's safety, and your vision still hasn't come back fully. Naturally, you start to panic.

“John!”

No. No John, John isn't here right now.

“Son, we need to get going.”

Oh, that's dad's voice. Your response is a small groan that sounds raspy and your throat hurts with the effort to make the noise. When had you closed your eyes? You open them to be greeted by the dirt and sight of your hammer still lying too far for comfort, a shadow hovering over you. That shadow turns out to be your Dad, and he's pulling you up too fast into as standing position. Your vision goes completely black with the headrush.

“He's only temporarily wounded,” he tells you, a calloused hand turning your face back and forth. He's checking for injuries. “We have to find Jane before he's able to get back up.”

Right, Jane. That's your main concern now. On the dirt floor yards away from where you and your father stand, you see the tell-tale scuff marks of a fight. They end abruptly, a path towards no particular destination and Jane still isn’t at the end of the trail. Your father rests a hand on your shoulder to get your attention. You turn your head in his direction, though your blue eyes are still locked on the spot where the marked earth ends, in your head trying to conclude where Jane might be. Your hands are being manipulated, something heavy placed in them that you wrap your fingers around. Warm comfort spreads through you.

Your hammer.

“Thanks, Dad,” you mumble. “You said the younger one was temporarily wounded…? Why didn’t you just kill him!”

Your dad pulls his face into a frown. Not for the first time you see just how much he’s aged. Crows feet crinkling when he narrows his eyes, the way he just looks tired. You know he’s too young to look that way, but the life of a hunter isn’t easy. It takes a lot out of you. You see a lot of death, you attend a lot of funerals and burn a lot of bodies. It takes a toll on you from an early age. You can only hope to be where your father is now. His age, so tired, and still doing what he has to do.

“I had to make sure you were alive, John,” he tells you in a solemn voice. “For all I knew he broke your neck before I had time to get him off of you.”

“Oh.” Oh. To hear your father had spared the life of a demon you’d been chasing for a long time now to make sure you were still alive. There’s guilt somewhere deep in your stomach and you’re tempted to apologize. You don’t. The answer he’ll give you is always the same. You don’t need to be sorry. He’s proud of you. He loves you. Thankfully for you, your father knows you well enough to know the faces you’re pulling when you’re thinking too hard. He doesn’t give you time to apologize.

“He’ll be out for a while. We have to find Jane.”

Both of you armed with your weapons of choice, you carry on. Dad remains two feet behind you at all times, just like when you were a child. ‘Stay where I can keep an eye on you, John’, he’d always used to say. As comforting as it is, you don’t think he actually trusts you on your own yet. Not that you blame him. You almost just died because you got distracted.

You shake yourself out of these thoughts, another distraction from the task at hand. The sun is beginning to set already, casting dark shadows all around you. A tree sways the wrong way and you ready your hammer in that direction. The light changes position ever so slightly and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. No real danger ever comes. It’s all false alarms, it’s the light playing tricks on you and the fact that you’re now on high alert so you don’t make any more mistakes.

“John, John, she’s over here.”

Even though you know that’s your dad’s voice, you jump anyway. The sudden startle makes your heart race. On edge, you turn to his direction to find him kneeling beside a tree. Jane is there, as well, just like he said. She’s got her wrist up to her nose, her glasses cracked and in her clenched fist. She’s not crying. She doesn’t look upset. You know Jane better than anyone, and she’s angry. Rightly so, too.

“I’m fine. Dad, I’m fine!” she keeps repeating the closer you get to her. There’s blood seeping from her nose and onto her wrist. Your father tries to staunch it with the handkerchief he pulls from his pocket, but Jane disregards it, still using her own wrist. “She got away. She heard Dirk and she just… she got away! I can’t believe this, I had such a close shot, I could have easily--”

“Jane, you did as well as you could,” your father tells her. You know she doesn’t find it reassuring. “I am very proud of you both. We should go home. You two need rest, and they won’t be back any time tonight. Not with two of them wounded.”

“Two?” You and Jane speak in unison. As far as you knew, one of the younger ones-- Jane had mentioned his name was Dirk-- was the only one with any type of injuries. Your father gives you a smile that says otherwise.

“You don’t really think your old man has lost his touch yet, do you?”

 

* * *

 

“Ow!”

“It’s just a sprain, dear. Hold still.”

“How’d you do it, Nanna?”

Maple Valley is quiet at night, the suburbs offering only the distant noises of the occasional car, crickets. There’s a frog somewhere outside on your front lawn, the periodic croaking serving to add to the ambiance. In your bed you lay awake despite your father’s request for you to rest. The bathroom that shares a wall with your room lets you join in on the conversation between Jane and your grandmother.

On your belly you drum your fingers. The rhythmic one-two-three-four keeps your mind from wandering too far. You have a habit of overthinking things sometimes. You don’t even notice when your hand comes up to grasp at the growing bruise on your neck. An ice pack rests on your computer desk. You were supposed to be holding that against the bruise, but you’d removed it about an hour and a half ago. You’ll be fine.

“Son?”

Your dad’s voice, sounding from outside your door, causes you to sit upright in your bed. He values your privacy almost as much as you do. The keyword being ‘almost’. That single word he’s given you is your only warning, accompanied by a three second pause before he’s opening the door. You pretend not to notice the way he’s limping-- you called him out on it earlier coming into the house. He told you there was just a small pain in his leg. Nothing to worry about. So you don’t bring it up again. Your dad doesn’t lie to you.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“I’m fine.”

You’re not entirely fine. Dirk had nearly killed you. It wasn’t like the movies, not at all. You were scared and you noticed the moment your vision started going dark, when the world began to fade from existence. Your life didn’t flash before your eyes. There was no bright light. There was pain. The lingering pain makes it hard to swallow, Adam’s apple aching with every movement.

Your father puts a hand on your shoulder. That’s his thing. It’s meant to be reassuring and most of the time, it is.

“You did a good job today, John. You’re still young. There’s still a lot to learn. I’m very proud of you. You know that, right?”

You nod.

You don’t know what to say to him.

You don’t think he should be proud of you.

By some (un)holy power, you’re given the most convenient way out of this awkward conversation when your phone begins to vibrate underneath your right forearm. The time is now 11:42 PST and you’re receiving a phone call from a family member located in Texas. Jade’s cheerful picture pops up above her name. There’s a grim feeling that washes over you, and you exchange glances with your Dad before you answer it.

“Hello?”

She’s crying. So you let her speak.

You let her speak until you clasp your hand over your mouth and you want to cry, you do, but you are not the crying type. You let her speak without interruption until your father is prompting you to tell him what’s wrong, why you’re pulling such a sad face, why your hands are beginning to tremble.

Jade tells you she has to go, and you tell her you love her. She returns the sentiment before the line goes dead.

“John? Jonathan, what’s going on? Is something wrong with Grandma?”

You can only shake your head. When you look at him, he knows. You don’t have to say anything. He already knows.

“Jake is dead.”

 

* * *

  
  


“You look nice.”

“Thank you. You got taller.”

“Still not as tall as you.”

“Taller than Jake is. Was.”

“...Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Forced conversations with your only remaining second cousin are a given at one’s funeral. She’s dressed in all black, a skirt down to her ankles and a button up shirt. You and your father are dressed in similar tuxes, both with dark blue ties. Your Nanna and Poppop hold hands, exchanging hugs with Grandma-- Jade’s grandmother. They’ve all been crying. You seem to be the only one here that hasn’t yet shed a tear for him. But you are sad. You’re so much more than sad.

You remember, when you were kids, you’d visit your cousins in Hawaii. That’s where they grew up, where their grandmother and grandfather met and raised their parents. You and Jake would spend hours hold up in his room, watching as many movies as you possibly could before your weak little seven year old bodies were too exhausted to keep going.

Now, you hardly remember the last time you saw him.

Your chest tightens and your fists clench at your sides. There’s a man up there preaching about something or another, telling you all these good things about Jake and his life and you think to yourself that this man, this man that serves a God you’re no longer sure is real, doesn’t know Jake. He doesn’t know the music he enjoyed or the way he grinned when all four of you would sit on the roof of your house, after staying up all night to watch the sunrise. In those rare moments when you were all together, it was good. It was good, Jake was alive, no one had the heavy burden of hunting weighing down on their shoulders. You were all innocent and the best of friends and now… 

Something like numbness sets in the remainder of his service. You shuffle, zombie-like, to a banquet hall. Your family is all there-- what’s left of them. Jake’s friends who you don’t know the name of, people who don’t try to get to know you because what reason do they have now that he’s gone? None.

“It was a demon that got him,” Grandma’s whisper in your ear catches you off guard. She doesn’t touch you on the shoulder before speaking like your father does, instead ghosting around and murmuring things in your ear. You turn to her with an eyebrow raised.

“Oh, it was, dear boy. Your father and I have already discussed the possibility of him returning down here but--”

“I’ll do it.”

You answer before she finishes her sentence. The look on her face is not one of surprise. No, Grandma knows you far better than that. She doesn’t question you. Doesn’t tell you no. In fact, she doesn’t say anything for a few moments. In place of surprise there’s a sudden sadness you hadn’t expected to see there, even with the events happening all around you. Jade looks so much like her, even now, when Grandma looks twice her age. So tired of all of this, just like your father. Just like you’re becoming.

You swallow thickly and fill in the silence that falls between the two of you.

“I’ll help you find it, Grandma. Jane and I will.”

“I know I can count on the three of you.”

God, you hope she can. Will it be worth it? You’re leaping into something else, blindfolded, with your hands behind your back. Possibly biting off more than you can chew. The demon had been merciless, Jade had told you beforehand. You’re going into this with the very high possibility that you won’t survive. But Jake is family. What kind of man would you be if you just sat by on the sidelines and let this foul bastard get away with what he’s done?

No man at all.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You promise him that you’d never let that happen. He is the way he is, and you are the way you are, all because you had to protect him. Everything you have done ever since the night was for him, and until now he had never known the sacrifices you had made._   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to 3k of angst, backstory, and exposition. You'll get John's part in Chapter 4, and Chapter 5 is where the real party starts. When I say slow build in the tags I fucking mean it, damn it.
> 
> Apologies for taking so long with this. Apparently work doesn't understand that I need to write sad gay shit in my free time. Also, Ruth and Bro are no longer together romantically, for future reference.
> 
> WARNINGS FOR CHAPTER 3:
> 
> Past Character Death, Past Trauma, Blood

The fastest healing part of the body is the mouth. It’s a well known fact that saliva carries healing properties. This is why licking a wound helps alleviate some of the pain, as well as offers faster healing. Swearing after obtaining an injury suppresses the pain as well. That, however, is more a mental placebo than anything remotely scientific. Demons, you think to yourself from a threadbare armchair, heal different than humans. Experience pain in different ways. A novice hunter doesn’t know this. They don’t know to aim for the heart, head, or lungs, because hitting any other major organ will do them little to no good. Demons still need those three main organs to survive. Slice to the belly, a hammer to the Achilles tendon. Injuries that do more harm than good, when it comes to the hunters that decided to dish them out. They only serve to piss a demon off.

Dirk hisses through his teeth when a washcloth soaked in saline solution hits the open wound on his abdomen. Had the hunter gone any deeper, you would have been able to see his intestines. Wouldn’t be the first time. Briefly a hand wanders to your own middle to trace over the scar you have just below your ribs. You remember the pain he’s in. Roxy hushes his growls of protest. There’s a bond between the two siblings that you choose not to try and understand, for your own personal reasons. Beside where she kneels on the ground rests her bowl of saline, already tainted with Dirk’s blood. Your narrowed eyes rake over the rest of her equipment.

This is her thing. Roxy’s thing. She’s a smart girl, and you hate to admit it, but she sort of kicks your ass at everything. Dirk’s, too, but you can chalk that up to a healthy sibling rivalry and the need to try and best the other. That is a very unwelcome thought that you ignore, rendering it a little redundant. Roxy is, for all intents and purposes, the medic of the broken little family you’ve managed to scrape together after all of these years.

Dirk is her fraternal twin, you found out shortly after meeting them. Attached at the hip, more or less out of necessity for survival than an actual need to constantly be around one another. Simply put, it was just safer that way. Where Roxy is skilled in things such as mending bones and healing wounds (and strangely extensive knowledge on things you never would have guessed), Dirk has been affectionately called ‘the little engineer that could’, courtesy their father. His craftsmanship has gotten the six of you farther than you’d like to admit. The single time you asked where he’d learned all of this, he pulled you in close and whispered in your ear ‘none of your damn business, old man’. You decided not to bring it up with him again. As you know from personal experience, everyone has their secrets.

In your chair you tug your legs up to cross underneath of you. Dirk had fixed the electricity in this old house the first day you all decided to nest here, and the ceiling light above your head flickers with it’s own old age. From the other room enters Dane. In that first split second that you see the strawberry blond hair and the dark red eyes you’re brought back to the first day you met him and his family. Even now, after all these years, you’re still taken aback just how much he looks like him, and you haven’t admitted for years that there is still a dull ache inside of you for what you have lost.

Dane greets you with a sleepy nod, limping towards the couch where Dirk still lay gritting his teeth in pain.

“Ruth and Rose?” you ask him, amber eyes fixed on the ceiling above you. Bugs make their home in the light fixture. You begin to wonder how many of them are in there, how many are dead or still living. How they even managed to get in there in the first place. You know that Dane can clearly sense that your mind is restless with anxiety, because he clears his throat for your attention before he begins speaking.

“Still in Washington,” he says. Something in his tone sounds wrong, and your gaze snaps from the city of insects nesting in a lump in the light to Dane. You flinch visibly, but no one says anything about it. He continues before you have time to question just why he sounds the way he does. “After we heard the news that James and his family were headed back to Texas, I decided to take it upon myself to tell them to keep their asses up North to stay away from all of this. Come on. Don’t give me that hurt bunny look--” He raises a brow at you and waits for the snarl to recede from your face. “--I know they’re your family but they got Dirk and I pretty fuckin’ bad.”

“Are you saying they’re weak?”

“Don’t start this shit, man, we need to stick it out together if we’re gonna survive this.”

He’s right, and you hate admitting that someone else is right when your opinion had originally been an opposing one. It had been your idea to split up in the first place, sending everyone else but yourself up to Washington to keep an eye on that half of the family, while you got some work done down in Texas. You realize, now, there was no point to that. You knew that killing Jake would result in an impromptu family reunion back down south.

“Will they be--”

“Bro,” Dane begins, and he’s giving you a look like maybe you’re not quite understanding the words that are coming from his mouth. You hate that look, but you do listen. “They’re strong. They’ll be okay on their own as long as they don’t make it known who or what they are. I know that this is personal for you, and you know that we all have your back, but you’re actively putting them in the line of fire by trying to involve them in this feud.”

“What about y’all?” There’s a rhythmic beat being played by your thumb on the torn part of your jeans. Occasionally your nail will catch your flesh, but you never bleed. It takes more than just the scrape of your pointed nail to break the tough skin on any part of your body. Dane’s expression doesn’t change when you look at him, as if your question is _stupid_ , as if he doesn’t understand why or how you could possibly be asking something like that. So badly do you want to open your mouth and go off on him about how he’s family, his kids are family and you value them as much as you do Ruth and Rose. There’s no time to begin that kind of argument before he’s interrupting your thoughts.

“They’d faster go after your direct kin than they would us, and you know it. You know it, because that’s exactly what you’re doing to them.”

God, you _really_  hate when he’s right.

You don’t want to have this conversation anymore because it’s hitting too close to home and you’re beginning to internally panic. Dirk can tell, you know by the way his nostrils flare and his eyes dart between you and Dane while Roxy continues to dress his wound. He’ll be fine soon. Dane’s Achilles tendon will be fine soon. Everything will be fine.

You met Dane and his clan almost 44 years ago, just a year after the incident that lead you on the bloody rampage you’re on now, the same one that you dragged them into almost the instant you thought you recognized Dane. It was Too Soon and it hurt Too Much and maybe it’s just demon intuition but they knew and they took you in. Since then, you never let them go. Dane was your brother, Roxy and Dirk were your niece and nephew. Replacements for what you had lost? Maybe. Healthy way to cope with said loss? Not at all. It wasn’t long before you were being openly scolded by your daughter on the effects of negative coping mechanisms to deal with trauma, or something like that.

Rose, Ruth, Dane, Dirk, Roxy. There’s a single name missing from the bunch and you only allow yourself to think about this now, while Dane is occupied fumbling with the television remote and the twins are occupied with each other, in the safety of a home where you know you’re not going to lose your life by being momentarily distracted in your mess of a headspace.

It was all your fault. You were selfish-- couldn’t be alone, couldn’t leave him alone after you found out the repercussions of what you did to your parents. In a fit of rage you took them out, one after the other in the comfort of their own beds. But you had to, didn’t you? They would have hurt Dave the way they hurt you and you couldn’t, you couldn’t. Some people do bad things for good reasons, you like to think. Either that’s true or you’ve found yourself a perfect way of pretending what you did wasn’t so horrible after all. The events that followed your parents death were, however, inarguably the worst decisions you’ve ever made in your life.

He didn’t want to do it. He didn’t want to be like you, let the darkness consume his soul and rot his insides beyond recognition. He begged you and you didn’t listen. He asked you to stop. You have nightmares, you think, of darkness and his voice pleading with you to let him go. You didn’t. You couldn’t. You had to protect him and you couldn’t just leave him alone and-- you realize now that you’re going to continue to make up excuses. One is never enough to satisfy your guilt, because it still drinks from your guts. As if the pain is manifesting itself physically you claw at your stomach to feel the wound there and there’s a fleeting, intrusive thought of ‘tear it open and watch your organs spill onto the floor to see what’s left of your humanity’ that you ignore.

You should call your family. That might quell your internal suffering.

Dane keeps a careful eye on you as you raise up from the armchair, feet hitting the floor and dragging all the way into the kitchen. The landline is dead despite Dirk’s efforts. Burner phones are cheap and effective, however, and they get the job done. You punch in the number you know that Ruth last had and let it ring. After the third ring you begin to worry, until a familiar, calming voice is heard through the receiver. You lean with your shoulder against the wall, letting that smile that tugs at your lips form fully because no one can see you and you doubt she can hear it in your voice.

“Hey, mama.”

“Broderick, I’ve been waiting to hear from you!”

“Sorry ‘bout that. It got a little messy gettin’ Dane and the kids back down here. How’s Rose?”

A pause. Worry. Gnawing at your lip until you taste blood.

“She’s fine. We’re both fine, and you can stop worrying because we both know you are!”

“Can’t help it. Lemme talk to her.”

There’s a bit of shuffling on her end, the sound of the phone being handed over, and your daughter's voice is the next you hear. Your smile grows and your heart softens and she starts scolding you, because you were being an absolute idiot and you _know_ how plans like these pan out and you’re ridiculous and you don’t really listen to half of what she’s saying to you but it makes you happy anyway.

“‘m glad you’re alright, babydoll.”

“... You too, Bro. We’ll be back down there as soon as you deem it safe for us. And then I intend to school your ass so hard for putting us in danger in the first place.”

“You always did know how to make me proud,” you purr. She makes a noise that you recognize as approval, in her own roundabout way. You tell her you love her and the sentiment is returned before Ruth is reclaiming the phone.

“Be safe out there, ya big, loveable idiot,” she says. If you didn’t know any better, which, you do, you’d say she sounds worried. You give a chuckle, pushing yourself from the wall.

“Always am, mama. I’ll let y’all know when all is said and done. Dane 'n I are just tryna keep ya--”

“--Safe. I know.”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll speak soon. Don’t keep us in the dark for too long.”

“You got it, mama.”

There’s a silence that follows. You loved her, many years ago. When that flame died out you don’t know, but you know it was a mutual, unspoken understanding between the two of you that it just wasn’t quite right. This silence holds all of the ‘I love you’s you never dared to say, and you may not mean it in the way you once did, but you do love her. And in this silence, she says it back.

The line goes dead.

You get a funny feeling in the pit of your stomach later on that night as you contemplate your next move.

If you remember correctly, Jake has a sister...  


* * *

 

_You told him to hide._

_That was the single, most important instruction you could have given him, and he followed it. The boy beside you begins to quiver with fear. For once in your life, the life that you prolonged thanks to a bad decision years and years ago, you don’t know how to help him. The realization that this is your fault hits you like a pillowcase full of bricks, full-on against the chest and you’re suddenly unable to breathe. The hurt that rips through you is something far much worse than you had ever experienced before, even at the hands of your parents._

_Because no one likes a boy with the Devil’s eyes._

_Your brother, your boy, your_ child _lay on his belly beside you. Cornered, scared. There are footsteps outside of the door of the room you’ve barricaded yourself in and as they grow progressively closer you feel the anxiety ripple off of Dave’s skin in sharp, hot waves._

_Closer. The thud of those boots he always wears was once a source of comfort. You now lay underneath the bed he once lay you down on top of. This room is no longer warm and alive and hopeful, this room no longer reminds you of love. It is cold, sinister, a trap you’d fallen for again and again and you never seemed to learn your lesson until it was too late. You’re surrounded by metaphorical barbed wire and a window that leads to a drop that would kill even someone like you, and most definitely Dave._

_Your brother asks if he’s going to die, if you’re going to die._

_You promise him that you’d never let that happen. He is the way he is, and you are the way you are, all because you had to protect him. Everything you have done ever since the night was for him, and until now he had never known the sacrifices you had made._

_He believes you, that you’ll protect him no matter the cost, even when the wood of the door splinters with a loud bang. The bullet flies overhead. Another one, and then another. The man you once knew inside and out is nothing but a stranger as he continues to send bullets shooting in your direction. Dave’s trembling hand clasps fingers over his mouth to quiet his laboured breathing. You grit your teeth and steel yourself for the inevitable crash of your almost-lover’s body slamming against the door._

_“David,” you say to him in a tone you can only pretend in the back of your mind is anything that even resembles the meaning of the word ‘calm’. “Go hide in the closet. Let me take care of this.”_

_He tells you that he’s strong too, he’s old enough to take care of himself and you don’t have to keep him in your shadow, and it hurts. You’re hoping that wince you felt mentally wasn’t transferred over into the physical world._

_In the next few moments you’re surrounded by the smell of gunpowder and the sound of the furniture you had used as a barrier between you and Hass squeaking it’s way across the floor. There’s another crash, and another. The furniture inches across the floor and the broken door crawls open to let the shorter man shoulder his way through. You don’t dare breathe, hoping that he thinks you both dove out the window. Another creak of furniture and you can hear Dave swallow, the faint click of his throat too loud in your ears._

_You see the boots scuff too close to your face. He doesn’t speak, but he hums. He hums the silly little tune he used to sing to you when your limbs were tangled and you were_ happy _._

_You’re too busy focusing on how it used to be instead of the way it is now that you notice one moment too late that there’s a hand shooting under the bed and Dave is struggling against Hass’ grip. The man pulls Dave from under the bed with you following quickly after._

_Fast. You’re fast, but not fast enough because somehow he’s painfully faster and your head fucking hurts. Something happened to your head. You reach back to feel where the blunt force struck, knocking you back a good yard. There’s blood, dark and sticky, almost tar-like. Not human._

_Dave is gone the next time you look up, dazed from the trauma to your head, the loud sound of gunfire ringing in your ear even moments after the shot struck through your brother’s body._

_His body is limp on the floor and his own blood spills from him and Hass is pointing his gun at you. You’re next-- it takes a single second for that thought to process in your head._

_The rest of that day is a blur._

_You remember the stinging in your belly._

_You remember the smell of smoke when you return to fetch Dave’s body._

_You remember swearing revenge on the man that killed him._

_You vowed in that moment that you would never forget._


End file.
